


Marked You

by Spooteh (Pawfoot)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, Godstiel - Freeform, M/M, more blasphemy than usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-16 17:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pawfoot/pseuds/Spooteh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Godstiel takes a concerning interest in Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marked You

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, I had a terrible calculus professor and wrote this fic instead of paying attention in class.

If it wasn’t for the way everyone’s eyes are flicking around, Dean might believe time has stopped. He can’t look at Bobby because he’s pretty sure his expression is going to say something along the lines of “I fucking told you so you fucking idjit.” He can’t look at Sam; can’t handle the utter confusion on his face, lost and scarred. And he sure as hell cannot look at this thing claiming it’s still Cas. So he stares at the floor, trying to ignore three pairs of eyes on him.

They could be standing there for years or seconds, but eventually Bobby drops haltingly to his knees, because someone has to keep them all from dying. Sam quickly follows, perhaps because he just needs something to do. Something that makes some level of sense. And when Dean kneels as well, Castiel smiles calmly, and it’s so unlike Castiel, Dean wants to throw up.

Bobby casts his eyes to the floor, and Dean does the same. Best to appease all powerful beings. Sam doesn’t, but Sam also looks like he no longer has a clue what’s happening. 

“Stand,” Castiel orders, suddenly right in front of Dean, hand on his chin. 

He doesn’t so much as obey as Castiel drags him upright. Dean forces himself to meet his eyes, because if the real Cas is somehow still there, he needs to reach him.

Castiel is way too close. The guy has a personal space problem at the best of times, but this, this is bordering on intimate. Too close for comfort, when he doesn’t know how much of this thing is still Cas.

“My Righteous Man,” Castiel breathes.

The title makes Dean’s skin crawl. He starts to shake his head, but Castiel’s nose is in the way; too damn close. 

“Don’t call me that.”

“It is written,” Castiel says.

“Fuck what’s written!” Dean snaps. “Wasn’t that the point? Nothing is set in stone. Team Free Will and all that?”

Castiel’s eyes close, and Dean is stupidly grateful.

“Just let them go, Cas. You don’t need them.”

“Heaven needs a god. I can do good; help humanity.”

“That’s not the point!”

Castiel’s eyes open, furious.

“I don’t understand,” he says, voice so low Dean thinks he might be the only one who can hear him. “The Righteous Man should love God. It is written.”

The hand on his chin tightens painful, and Castiel kisses him, mouth hard against Dean’s. Dean has just a moment to hate how incredibly inevitable this feels before Castiel deepens the kiss and the world just vanishes. 

Castiel’s power overwhelms him, drowning him, making him wonder how he ever believed he could defy the angel… the god. One arm wraps around his body, pressing him against Castiel’s unyielding body. The hand on his chin moves to grip possessively at his shoulder, closing over the mark left when Dean was pulled out of Hell.

Nothing could have prepared Dean for this. When Castiel touches the mark, all the strength in his legs vanishes, and Dean slumps against Castiel. Cas holds him up, the arm around his waist tightening. He feels owned, and in the moment, it’s comforting. It’s like he belongs. 

When Castiel breaks the kiss, loosening his grip, Dean doesn’t managed to recover his balance and pitches forward on unsteady legs, grasping instinctively at Castiel’s shoulders to stop his fall.

“Do you understand now?” Castiel asks.

Dean shakes his head. He doesn’t understand anything right now. He feels sort of vaguely in the back of his head that he should be embarrassed. Bobby and Sam are here. In a similar way, he’s aware kissing Castiel should not affect him like this. These are things he knows, objectively, like he knows the Earth is round, knows east, west, north, and south. He knows, but do they really matter?

“You are mine,” Castiel states, eyes frighteningly cold. “I marked you; I claimed you.”

Again his hand tightens over the scar on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean feels a flicker of that all-consuming power.

“Yes,” he gasps, pressing himself mindlessly against Castiel. “Yes.”

Castiel draws back, smiling. “I have things to attend to, but I will be back. I will return for you.”

He releases his grip on Dean, moves away, leaving Dean disoriented. Without Castiel supporting him, he has no sense of equilibrium. Dean sways and stumbles, and he reaches for Castiel. When Castiel vanishes, the power clouding his mind lessens. He braces himself against the wall.

For a moment, no one is sure how to react.

“What the hell was that?” Bobby finally asks. 

Dean ignores him in favor of Sam, because every time he starts thinking about Cas, he forgets. He forgets that Cas lied to them, that Cas betrayed them. That Cas broke his little brother. So he needs to concentrate on Sam. He needs to know just how bad Sam is.

His brother is still on his knees when he reaches him. Sam watches him as he approaches, and when Dean crouches down to reach him; it’s painfully obvious Sam isn’t seeing him. 

“Sam?” Dean asks tentatively.

Sam’s eyes focus on him, and for a moment it looks like he’s about to speak, but then his eyes close, and he falls to the floor.

“Sammy!” Dean shouts reflexively.

It’s not as if he’s surprised when his brother doesn’t respond. And a part of him is sickly, selfishly glad to have this to focus on.

“Any time you feel like helping, Bobby,” he says as he tries to figure out some way to get Sam out of here.

Between the two of them, they’re able to drag Sam out. Fortunately no supernatural forces have destroyed the car Sam brought. Dean very determinedly does not look at the crushed shell of the Impala when they drive past.

There’s a moment when they make it back to Bobby’s where Dean moves to take Sam to a bedroom and Bobby moves to take him to the panic room. They have a silent debate about where to put him. Dean’s not sure what his face looks like, but whatever it is, Bobby lets him win.

“We’re going to have to talk about this,” Bobby says once Sam is settled.

Dean rubs a hand over his face and tries to figure out how he’s going to get his car back so he can avoid everything else he should be thinking about.

“He’s snapped out of this before. No reason he can’t do it again.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean, Bobby?” Dean demands.

“How Cas seems to have decided you’re his consort.”

And yeah, whatever is in his head really likes that idea. Which… Dean really doesn’t want to talk about this. Ever.

“If Cas is God now, I doubt he’s going to waste time on me.”

Bobby stares at him like he can’t believe anyone can be this willfully stupid, and Dean has no idea how to tell him it’s either forced ignorance or self-losing submission.

“If Castiel had actually become God, you might have a point. But he’s not God. He’s still Cas, just a mad with power version of himself. Which means he’s probably going to fixate on thing that mattered to him before he went crazy. And don’t try and pretend you didn’t.”

“Well that’s just great, Bobby, but what do you suggest we do about it? He can’t be killed by angel blades; I’m guessing the banishing sigils aren’t going to work.”

“Which is why we need to talk about your reaction to him.”

But that’s exactly what Dean can’t even think about, thank you very much, so he pretends this conversation is over and walks out the door.

As he wanders through the rows of scrap and junk cars, Dean focuses on all the reasons he has to hate Castiel. He’s lied to Dean, he’s been working with Crowley, who is seven kinds of scum, and most importantly, he broke Sam’s wall, for no other reason than he knew it would distract Dean. Before he took in all those souls and went crazy. Those choices were all Cas.

So he focuses on his brother, locked in his memories of Lucifer and Hell, and tamps down on the traitorous corner of his brain that wants to remember kissing Castiel. Wants to remember that feeling of belonging, of being cared for, and Jesus Christ give this thing an inch and it takes a mile.

“I could restore him.”

Dean whips around to find Castiel right behind him. Usually, Cas’ appearances are accompanied by a flutter of wings that almost isn’t a noise, but Dean’s very attuned to it. To realize it’s gone is incredibly disconcerting. 

He must look confused, because Castiel clarifies. “Sam. I would restore him if you asked. If you prayed for it. For the prayer of a righteous man is powerful.”

The way he say it, solemnly and by rote, makes Dean wonder if he’s quoting something, which helps feed the anger he feels coiling in his chest, more potent than this false devotion. Old Cas didn’t set a lot of store by what was written. 

“Dear Castiel,” he intones with as much false piety as he can muster. “Please look down upon your… upon Sam Winchester and see fit to fix his mind, because God should fucking clean up his own messes, and he’d be perfectly fine if it wasn’t for you, damn it.”

There’s a pause, and Castiel raises his eyebrows pointedly. You’ve got to be fucking joking, Dean thinks.

“Amen,” he adds.

He blinks and Castiel slams him to the ground. “That was hardly convincing, Dean,” he says.

Dean can’t see much with the way Castiel holds him down, his body obscuring the sky, so he knows Cas has done his freaky angel teleport thing more through the disorientation that just seems to come with it. And there is a pretty obvious difference between the gravel of Singer Salvage and the plush carpet of wherever here is. 

Castiel stands, and Dean can see they’re in an ornate room, gilded moldings on the walls, aristocratic and antique furniture. It’s horrifically reminiscent of Heaven’s Green Room. He shifts, moving to stand as well, but finds he can’t. No pressure stopping him, he just is suddenly physically incapable of getting to his feet.

And really, if a force were holding him there, it’d be less freaky. Because this detached nothingness suggests Castiel is capable of stripping him of his control over his body, and there’s nothing Dean can do about it. He wants desperately for something to fight, something to struggle against.

It doesn’t help that he can feel the beginnings of Castiel’s power starting to trail around him, a physical presence that threatens to overwhelm him. Dean focuses on Sam, on this feeling of helplessness, on how fucking furious he is with Castiel.

Without being aware of deciding to move, Dean rises to his knees.

“I think you can do better, Castiel says, running a hand through Dean’s hair before tracing fingertips over his face. They trail over his cheekbones and nose then drag his eyes shut. “Can you do better, Dean?”

The presence of Castiel’s power suddenly goes from wispy tendrils curling around him like fog to all encompassing. Dean feels it blanketing his skin like condensation, feels it in his blood, feels it calling to his very soul.

His mind clings tightly to his anger in an attempt to resist. Think about Sammy, he instructs himself.

It takes little effort to picture his brother as he last saw him, tucked into bed, eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. He’d seemed so unnaturally small. With a little more effort, Dean can picture Castiel pressing two fingers to Sam’s forehead, watches as Sam collapses. Because of Castiel.

The fury is white hot, pure and it grounds him. He no longer feels like Castiel’s power is drowning him, and he pulls away from Castiel’s hand and stands.

“No,” he says. “Take me back.” 

Castiel sighs. “Why is this so difficult for you?” 

The angel tries to move closer, but Dean moves back. It’s only when the back of his knees hit a sofa that he wonders if Castiel meant for this happen. Now he’s trapped as Castiel slips into his space.

It’d be better if Castiel got angry. Instead, he just has this look of serene disappointment on his face, like he is honestly confused and saddened by Dean’s lack of comprehension, but he’s willing to keep explaining.

Slim fingers trap his wrists, and Castiel’s touch threatens to undo him. 

“Stop.” Dean says, and he’s ridiculously pleased with how firm he sounds.

Castiel turns them both, so that Dean’s back is toward the room. He sits, pulling Dean with him so the hunter is straddling his lap.

“You are mine,” Castiel states, grasping at Dean’s shoulders. “Do not fight it.”

Once again, Dean feels his resolve crumbling against Castiel’s new-found power. He’s drawn to him, bending so their foreheads are pressed together, breathing each other’s air.

“Please,” he whispers, and he’d like to think he’s asking Castiel to stop, to go back to being his best friend and fix his brother and end this madness, but he’s not entirely sure he isn’t asking him to continue.

The clarity he gained by focusing on Sam disappears, and Dean is once again at the mercy of Castiel’s desires.

Castiel’s hands tighten on his hips, forcing him to shift back. Now instead of being arched over Castiel, Dean is seated in the angel’s lap. In this position he can feel Castiel’s erection pressing against his own through their pants. Dean groans and rocks his hips against Cas, rubbing them together. Castiel smiles at this, but his hands keep pressing Dean back. Although confused, he lets Castiel guide him until he’s sliding off him to the floor. With Dean off of him, Castiel opens his own legs wider, nudging Dean between them.

Dean stares up at him questioningly. “Cas?” he asks and wonders why he sounds afraid. Castiel will take care of him.

As if to confirm this, Castiel strokes comfortingly at his hair with one hand while the other undoes his fly. He draws out his cock, guiding it until the head nudges Dean’s lips. Dean opens his mouth slowly, tongue flicking around the tip, curious. He’s never blown a guy before, but if Castiel wants this, he’ll do his best.

Castiel moans and when Dean glances up, he smiles encouragingly. Emboldened, Dean takes more of Castiel into his mouth, sucking. Castiel’s hips jerk forward, and Dean chokes as his cock hits the back of his throat.

Castiel pulls out, hands moving to cup Dean’s face as he splutters and coughs. Cas’ hands tilt his face up, and he meets Cas’ concerned gaze.

“Oh,” Castiel says softly, like he’s just realized something incredibly obvious.

His hands slide down to Dean’s shoulders, and his face tenses in concentration for a moment. 

“Try again. You’ll be able to take it,” he says, canting his hips, offering himself to Dean, who goes down on him obediently.

This time, Castiel keeps himself still as Dean takes more of him in. When Cas hits the back of his throat, Dean finds his gag reflex non-existent. Instead of choking, he swallows around Castiel, and the angel cries out.

Dean hums, pleased, as he pulls back, swirling his tongue around the tip before swallowing Cas down again. He raises his hands to Castiel’s thighs, hoping his grip will encourage him to take what he wants. Dean can handle it; Cas made sure of that.

Taking the hint, Castiel arches off the sofa, thrusting into Dean’s mouth. His fingers slide through Dean’s hair, not exactly gripping, but they keep him in place. Dean moans around Castiel’s cock, getting off on the angel’s sighs of pleasure.

With another thrust, Castiel comes, crying out Dean’s name. Dean swallows again, milking him through it.

When he’s spent, Castiel slumps back on the sofa, cock slipping from Dean’s mouth. He pets Dean with one hand while the other tucks himself away. Then he pulls Dean back into his lap, kissing him languidly. 

Dean groans and rocks his hips, seeking friction. Castiel slides a thigh between his legs, twirls their tongues together.

“Oh,” Dean gasps, breaking the kiss to throw his head back, exposing his throat. He clutches at Castiel’s shoulders, rutting against him. “Oh god.”

Castiel’s lips brush against his pulse point, and Dean can feel his smirk. “Yes.”

His lips move down, leaving a wet trail along Dean’s neck. 

“Come for me,” Castiel orders when he reaches the juncture of Dean’s neck and shoulder. He punctuates the command by biting down, and Dean obeys with a gasp.

“Much better, Dean,” Castiel says, as Dean slides, boneless, back to the floor.

He rests his head against Castiel’s knee, panting slightly. Castiel pets him affectionately for a moment before pressing two fingers to his forehead.

The next thing Dean knows, he’s kneeling alone on gravel, with semen drying in his pants and a hickey on his neck.

“But I could do with more convincing.”

Dean leaps to his feet, but Castiel is gone when he turns.

Well, fuck.


End file.
